


you should see me in a crown

by cataline66



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Coach/Player Relationship, F/M, Ice Skating, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:47:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cataline66/pseuds/cataline66
Summary: He's helped her train since she was twelve. She credits him for her triple axel.When she calls him asking for a favor, how could he refuse?****The story, told primarily from Sergei Rozanov's POV, starts with Alena Kostornaia leaving Eteri for Plushenko's Angels.
Relationships: Alena Kostornaia & Sergei Rozanov
Comments: 39
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Warning: this story 100% ships Rozanov with Kostornaia and if that sounds creepy or gross to you then by all means, please click out! As a reminder, this is PURE FICTION and as a skating fan myself, of course I want nothing but the best for both Rozanov and Kostornaia's careers. So obviously, nothing in this fic can happen IRL :') But please tell me I'm not the only one who imagines, in an alternate universe, there being something MORE to their interactions. I mean, have you SEEN some of their insta pics together? Anyway, without further ado, the story!

♕ ♕ ♕

The phone’s going off when Sergei Rozanov comes out of the shower. It’s 9am, on a Saturday. Whoever it is, Sergei thinks, can wait until he puts a shirt on.

He towels off in front of his bedroom mirror, facing away from the chest of drawers on which his phone rests, vibrating. He waits for it to go to voicemail as he examines his reflection. Should he re-dye his hair and if so, black or brown? Mid-deliberation, when he notices the phone screen, also reflected in the mirror.

He turns around.

Her name is in white along the top. The rest of the screen is filled with her picture, one that he snapped of her at training. Crossover at the other side of the rink, arms held aloft, soft as wings. She’s a raven on the ice, all black tights and black long-sleeved top, straps latticed across her back. Her hair is up, in a bun, like most of Eteri’s girls.

Sergei recalls the one or two times he’s seen it down.

He gives his head a single shake, picks up the device. He answers the call and realizes, once it’s done, he has no clue what to say. _Алло,_ or her name? _Reason for calling?_ —but that’s too formal, never mind that Sergei has a right to ask and to know. It’s been two months since he left Sambo 70, one month since they last texted. He can’t remember what it was about. Just that Alena initiated. Probably something skating related. It’s how their outside-of-the-rink conversations usually go. On the ice there’s an ease and glide to their conversations. Student and coach but he’s not Eteri, or Daniil, or Dudakov. Alena and him, they’re more like equals.

Off-ice, though, he lets her take the reins and aside from the occasional sticker or update about some vampire show she’s watching, it’s mostly to the point and professional.

Frankly, it's odd that she’s calling.

He takes a breath and it’s all he can do before her voice fills his head.

“I want to come train with you.”

Her voice is girlish—has always been. He makes himself focus. “Plushenko’s?”

“Plushenko’s, yours, same thing. I want to come train with you.” She speaks seemingly without breathing. “Are there openings? Could you ask for me? I know the transfer period is over, but if Plushenko would allow it, I’d come immediately. I _want_ to come immediately.”

 _Wait. Hold on._ But Alena’s like the weather. She rains and she shines and it’s everything at once and never an in between and Sergei, phone held to his face, damp skin cooling, realizes he’s missed it.

“What about Eteri?” he asks, as if he doesn't know about the woman and her school and her conveyor belt of champions. He worked there for seven years, after all. Worked with Alena for five, and knows her almost as well she knows herself. He asks, despite the torrent asking will unleash.

He misses even the storms.

But no storm comes. A silence, on the other end.

“Alena, is everything all right?”

“So can I come?”

Sergei breathes out, slow. “Think it over. It’s a big decision.” Moment he says it, he hates how patronizing he sounds. All of the children he’s worked with are like soldiers, each more disciplined than the next, each doing one more rotation, one more run through, pushing themselves to be leaner, faster, stronger. But Alena…she’s different. A different kind of mature. Some would call her immature, actually, because she texts during her interviews and speaks her mind and cries in public.

But she knows exactly what she wants. What she doesn’t want.

Which is why when they each hang up— _think it over and call me later_ —Sergei can already hear her final answer.

He finishes drying himself, pulls on dark-washed jeans and a black turtleneck, and remembers, randomly, that he didn’t wipe down the shower. He goes back into the tiny bathroom and towels off the glass. He walks out, into the cooler, less humid bedroom. He picks up his phone again, and clears his throat even though one is waiting for him to speak.

He doesn’t know what the reason is yet. He doesn’t know anything at all, other than what Alena wants and doesn’t want.

She doesn’t want to stay with Eteri.

She wants to come to Plushenko’s rink.

To him.

He scrolls through his contacts and finds the number.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who read and left kudos on my first chapter! I was nervous about posting this ship and am so glad that some of you seemed to enjoy it in its fictional context. 
> 
> The disclaimers on my first chapter still apply, as well as some new ones. Even though I'm a fan, I'm not a figure skater myself, so please forgive any inaccuracies in terminology, jargon, or circumstance. For example, I know Plushenko is also working with Sasha, along with other specialists. But since this fic is focused mostly on Rozanov and Alena (and I'm lazy :') ) I'm going to be pretty sparse with the other characters at times. Thank you for understanding!

**♕ ♕ ♕**

**2 weeks later**

The news breaks on Instagram. Eteri Georgievna Tutberidze’s Instagram, to be specific. Sergei sees the woman’s post as he’s getting into his car. The door shuts; he feels a thud in his stomach, followed by a surge of anger, disgust, and something…quieter. A protectiveness, you could call it.

He knows how these things play out. When news broke that he was leaving for Plushenko’s, he got called everything from social climber to traitor which, in Sergei’s opinion, is pushing it. It’s not like Sambo-70 and Plushenko’s Angels are nations at war. It’s not even like he’d consider his colleagues _family._ It is, after all, just _work._

Just skating.

The corner of Sergei’s mouth quirks. _Just skating._ An oxymoron, if there ever was one. The ice is its own universe, where the laws of physics are defied and every fall reverberates through the figure standing at the boards, holding the skater’s coat. The coach, the athlete—they’re all intertwined. Ice means glory for both, and for most, glory is fleeting. Blink, and you’ll miss it. Years of your life can be spent chasing after a single moment, and then the rest will be spent reliving it. The ice is a place where dreams are eternal, and bigger than any one individual.

And therein lies the problem. When he left Sambo 70, he didn’t just take himself. He took the Zhilina sisters too, took their hopes and dreams (as well as Eteri’s) with him. He took _the_ Alexandra Trusova, a real medal contender for Winter Olympics in Beijing.

Dreams don't get much bigger than that.

Closing Instagram, Sergei swipes to his last exchange with Trusova, left on some note about a potential costume change. He considers giving her the heads up about Alena’s transfer. In the end, he doesn’t text her. It won’t help. _He_ can’t help. Not anymore. Not after he ruined things—and of course, a part of him denies this, and as he drives, Sergei tells himself it wouldn’t be fair to say he masterminded any of it. The decision was still Alena’s. He was careful, when he left, not to lure her. Not to sway her. Even if he wanted her at his rink—Plushenko’s rink—it’s her career. He’s not her coach.

They’re not at war.

It wouldn’t be fair to call him a traitor.

♕

Plushenko’s rink is 15 km south of Sambo-70, but since Sergei lives between the two locations, the drive feels the same either way. He arrives about a quarter past eight and pulls into his usual lot. He steps out, wearing his shades. Summers in Moscow don’t get very hot, but today is one of the warmer days, 30 C according to the dash on his car.

Not that it matters. The outside temperature vanishes the second he steps into the rink. This is the real world. This: 1800 square meters of resurfaced ice, lights up high, banners printed with Plushenko’s face, the hush of blades as skaters soar from one end to the other, carving their marks into the expanse. Among them is Trusova, working on her triple axel.

She doesn’t know yet.

And she won’t learn for the next three hours, because her phone is in her bag and they have programs to get through. The Romeo and Juliet music comes on and Sergei watches the first run through from the boards as if he were a judge or spectator. After the music ends, he skates onto the ice and makes his critiques and corrections, adjusts a choreographic element or two. Trusova is a spitfire; the program is designed to showcase that side of her. In the short, he pushes her, coaxes her to skate out of her comfort zone and to be more lyrical. But in the free skate, where the layout is harder and she needs to nail her quads, he goes for tried and true. The music cuts reflect that.

“Better,” he says after he’s satisfied with her transition out of a combo. “Ready to do it again?”

Trusova nods, breathing hard, hands on her hips.

Sergei skates back to the boards, turns on the music.

Here they go once more.

Drums. Opera. Gaze up, arms rise, strings crescendo. Cymbals crash, and then all hush, as if the music is holding its breath for the first quad. Blades hit the ice, a spray. It’s the epitome of theater of drama for the first minute and then some.

And then the piano starts.

And suddenly, it’s not Trusova’s music or program anymore.

_Alena, in a blue dress_

_Hand held to her lips, as if savoring a kiss._

It’d be wrong and inappropriate to have these images of the sixteen-year-old girl if she weren’t an artist. But she _is_. An artist on ice, she transcends her age and _creates,_ not just the image of Juliet, but the emotion of it. She transports herself, and the audience with her, into a world where love is worth dying for.

Sergei knows. He’s been a part of that audience—unwittingly, before he realizes it's happening. Even when he was supposed to be coaching in Eteri or Daniil’s stead, scrutinizing her form, he’d stop seeing the technical imperfections.

He’d start seeing her.

He sees her now, like a ghost.

Trusova's program is almost over by the time Sergei comes back to himself. The jumps are all done, the point makers, as Sergei likes to consider them, and now it’s just the step sequence. There’s room for improvement here—a twizzle could be sharper, a change of edge smoother—and Sergei points them out, more critical than usual, as if trying to make up for his attention lapse. Sasha redoes the elements, per his instructions. Break time arrives and she leaves the rink, puts on her blade guards, finds her bag.

Takes out her phone.

Soon. Soon, she will see. She will realize that they have done.

What Sergei has done.

Sergei can only hope that she’ll be understanding. Alena Kostornaia being here won’t change anything.

He can be a coach for them both.

It’s what he tells himself, as he steps off the rink and retrieves his own phone. He checks Eteri’s post again and sure enough, it’s blown up. The comments are what he feared, if not worse. They’ve spilled onto Alena’s own posts which, Sergei notices, don’t include any addressing the transfer in her own words. It’s probably for the best—let it die down—but still, Sergei can’t help but feel for the girl. He opens their last conversation, and types into the text field.

**_Hang in there._ **

**_Stay strong._ **

**_It’ll be over soon._ **

He deletes each one after writing it out. They all sound wrong. He looks up from his phone, to the ice. He stares at it, letting his gaze drift. He glances back down.

He types one final message, and hits send before he can regret it.

♕

  
FROM SERGEI ROZANOV TO ALENA KOSTORNAIA, 11:52 AM

**_If you need anything, just call._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you for reading! Leave a comment if you can--I'd love to hear your thoughts and discuss!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers as well as some new ones: I don't have exact dates or timelines (apart from the competitions) so please forgive my best guess attempts! 
> 
> Also--and this will likely become more clear by the next chapter--I realize that there are conflicting stories as to what Alena said vs what team Eteri said. For the record, I am 100% team Alena, no matter where she is and where she goes, and I think it's pretty low of the adult to drag a student on social media like that. So just giving you that heads up since some people were pretty sad about Alena's split from Eteri. I also think they're both FASCINATING "characters," and I'm not going to go easy on either of them.
> 
> Lastly (and should have said this earlier!), I'm doing this for fun, so please forgive any shitty writing or typos :D

♕ ♕ ♕

July 31. It’s neither the start of the season, nor the date of some competition. Even without a pandemic, morale starts to dip right about now. Trainings drag, skaters become sluggish.

Everything but the scandals slow.

Today, like any other day, Sergei arrives at the rink in his signature look: black shirt and black puffer coat, not a hair out of place, his stoicism a disguise for how he really feels. When you’re thirty years old, a certified adult in the eyes of the world, you know better than to lose your cool over one person—be it a student or a girl. But he allows himself just the tiniest flicker of anticipation. Excitement, frayed by a touch of nerves.

He feels more alive the second he sees her.

She smiles at him from the other end of the boards, then walks over with that familiar bounce in her step. He walks too, careful not to let her enthusiasm infect him.

They meet in the middle of the aisle.

They do not touch. Do not hug. That sort of contact is reserved strictly for on the ice or fresh off, when adrenaline and emotions are high, post-skate, and guards can be briefly let down. Yet even with the space between them, this is close enough. Closer than they’ve been in nearly three months. She seems to have grown. Matured, as much as Sergei dislikes the word. Dislikes having to notice it in the first place even though it's his job to. As her coach, he must keep tabs on everything and anything that might affect her jumps, from the width of her shoulders to the length of her arms to the new highlights in her hair, different but it suits her, her cheekbones fit her face better.

Her eyes are more expressive, somehow.

Oblivious to the quickening of his pulse, Sergei swings open a section of the boards.

“I hope you’re ready to work.”

♕

One reason, among many, for the uproar over Alena’s late transfer stems from the fact that Daniil already made her two new programs. Sambo 70 claims that Alena loved them, framing her decision to leave as blindsiding, ungrateful, and motivated by material factors such as sponsorships and money.

But Sambo 70 isn’t the one who’s been calling with Sergei for the last three weeks.

_“I hated them.”_

At first all Alena could talk about was how worried she was. It was up to Sergei to reassure her. The transfer would go through; they’d have to build new programs then anyway so why not start now, get ahead while they could?

_“There was no breathing room. I might as well have been a marionette, being jerked around.”_

Sergei agrees. He’s seen a clip of the short; it’s a travesty. Daniil may be (or have been at this rate) his friend, but that doesn’t mean they share the same artistic opinions, or the same level of understanding of what fits Alena best.

_“The sad thing is that I really liked the music. I really wanted to do a Billie Eilish program.”_

Here, Alena would sigh, obvious about her emotions, a trait that has hindered her on the ice, in training, but on the phone, between them, Sergei allowed her to sit in her disappointment for several seconds before saying, gently but firmly, “We still can.”

 _We,_ not _you._

The smallest of things can make the biggest difference.

As the federation fought amongst itself—about dates and payments and other bureaucratic nonsense—Sergei got down to business. He added all of Billie Eilish’s tracks on Spotify and listened to them as he cooked, as he drove. He brainstormed choreo while on break, at work. Every now and then, he’d check in on the media firestorm. Daniil was giving damning interviews. Eteri was throwing shade and Plushenko was throwing it right back, unable to resist the drama. Several times a day, Trusova’s parents would call Sergei and rant at him on the phone. Trusova herself had opted for the silent treatment, keeping whatever thoughts she had about Sergei and Alena Kostornaia behind a stony face.

The public wasn’t nearly as reserved. On Instagram, the only social media platform Sergei was really on, they called Alena a stuck up. A diva. A bitch (Sergei smarted at the word).

_She thinks she wears a crown._

Now, in the present, and in person, Sergei sees anything but. He sees a girl whose face can fall as easily as it can light up. She’s human, flesh and bone and muscle. In the time cost by the transfer, she’s lost her jumps. An hour into practice, and Sergei sees a girl frustrated, barely holding back tears.

She’s afraid the magic has been lost.

Sergei knows it’s not.

“Come,” he says, skating backwards, tracing waves onto the ice as he glides to the boards.

“Let’s find you a new short program song,” he says.

He already has one in mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so, so much for reading. I'm not kidding when I say every comment motivates me to write a new chapter, and I love hearing what you liked so that I can do more of it <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, way more of you have found this story than I initially expected when I posted and that means so much to me! Thank you so much for reading and for all your comments <3 They really do motivate me to write on!
> 
> Also, sorry about the "delay" of this post--I was able to churn out the first 3 chapters while on a break from work but may not be able to post the rest as fast. Thank you for your patience, and remember to subscribe if you want to be notified when I update :)
> 
> Lastly, wishing Alena the fastest recovery from COVID, and hoping the people in her life stay healthy. With that (and the standard disclaimers--ignore the typos and forgive my artistic liberties) the chapter!

**♕ ♕ ♕**

**TEST SKATES**

**September 12th, 2020**

Other skaters had months to prepare.

They get one.

**♕**

In the practice room. Alena stretches, quiet. Sergei watches from by the wall. The other girls jog, skip rope, jump. Their rivals. “Test skates” is a misnomer. They should just call it for what it is: a prediction for the season. Medals may be won at competitions, but test skates are where pecking orders are decided and psyches are either boosted or rattled.

When the time comes to exit the practice room, they travel down a beige, bricked hallway, to the rink. The smell of the ice—sharp and clean—heightens Sergei’s senses and lends him focus. He needs it. The interactions by the boards are as choreographed as the programs themselves, each coaching team doing its utmost to avoid eye contact.

It doesn’t help that Sergei’s being ignored by members of his own team as well.

Trusova jogs past him. A month now, this silent treatment has gone on. Plushenko told Sergei not to worry about it, to believe in time as the best medicine, but at this rate Sergei isn’t sure if things will ever heal between them. Given that, he should feel a lot worse about the whole situation than he currently does, but his mind is preoccupied. He’d never admit to it—can’t, as a coach—but he is nervous.

The first group of girls are announced.

Anna Shcherbakova  
Kamila Valieva  
Alena Kostornaia

The boards open.

The skaters fly across the ice.

At a glance, they could belong to one camp, everyone in their red TEAM RUSSIA jackets. But then the jackets come off.

The battle lines have been drawn.

Shcherbakova and Valieva are each wearing little black dresses in classic cuts. Their buns are tight, their limbs willowy. When they pick up speed, forms a blur, they could almost pass as the same person. But Sergei knows them too well to confuse them. He’s worked with both girls since they were novices and juniors.

He understands, very well, what they are capable of.

Alena, meanwhile, appears less polished. More visibly anxious. She unzips her jacket; Sergei catches it as it's flung. Now, in just her training clothes, the visual difference between her and the others is stark and Eteri’s intent couldn’t be more obvious. Everything—from the first group’s line-up to the matching dresses—speaks of her agenda, similar enough to her skaters’ that Sergei can’t outright call them her pawns, but they are. Deliver a clean skate, and intimidate Alena. Deliver a clean skate, and make it clear to all those watching who was the mistaken one. If the interactions at the boards have been a tip-toey dance around the subject of Alena leaving Sambo 70, then this message is written in black and white, and Sergei swears he sees it in the blonde woman’s eyes when their gazes briefly latch.

 _Just try,_ her expression says.

At one end of the rink, Shcherbakova lands a lutz loop combo.

Seconds later, Valieva follows up with a lutz toe, arms tannoed.

Then the announcer's voice sounds and everyone but Shcherbakova gets off the ice. The crowd cheers as she waves, gliding to the center. Silence falls.

The cello starts.

**♕**

It’s not just the costumes that are similar, but the programs themselves. Classical music. Emotional. Every extension perfect. A synchronized attack, delivered by Shcherbakova, then Valieva, right before Alena’s skate. Honestly, Sergei wouldn’t be surprised if Eteri orchestrated it. Rumor has it that Sambo-70 is choreographing Daria Usacheva’s free skate to the same music cuts as Trusova’s. It doesn’t get much pettier than that. And Eteri keeping Alena off the ice while her transfer went through? That’s bordering on sabotage, considering how much conditioning was lost. 

At last Alena is up. Plushenko offers her a few words; Sergei isn’t sure how much she absorbs. He wishes he could speak her too but it’d be awkward to, after his boss, and then she’s already off, stroking to the center.

Through the speakers, the heartbeat thumps.

It feels awfully like Sergei’s own.

**♕**

**_~ I should have known ~_ **

Note of the piano. Head lifts. Life—released through five outstretched fingertips.

**_~ I’d leave alone_ ~**

_“As if you’ve been stabbed.” Sergei stands behind Alena, holding her raised arms. He folds them down and clasps both of their hands over her ribs. “Like this.”_

**_~ Just goes to show ~_ **

_Her chin drops without him telling her to do so, the down-flicker of her eyes so natural that Sergei could almost believe she were really wounded. Her neck rolls, shoulders rippling, a poem._

**_~ That the blood you bleed is just the blood you owe ~_ **

Spiral. Ina Bauer. Double Axel.

Plushenkos claps. Sergei can’t feel his hands. When Alena veers on the lutz landing, his heart skids. The second heartbeat in the music begins; he breathes, reminds himself that the jumps are done. She could do the rest of the program with her eyes closed and when it’s over and she comes out of her ending pose, Sergei feels a surge of pride and relief. They can work with this.

It could have gone a lot worse.

But some of that relief dies when he sees her face. She’s not happy with the skate. As expected—Alena won’t take anything less than perfect—but it weighs on Sergei, still. He takes her under one of his arms, pats her back, once. Quick. They separate. She holds onto his shoulder to put on her blade guards and he supports her, holds out her jacket for her. They move over to the screen together, standing side by side to watch the replays overhead. She winces at the lutz and says, “Yikes, that wasn’t good.” It wasn’t, but Sergei doesn’t need to add to what she already knows. He passes her the tissue plush.

“Here.”

She takes it.

The silence stretches.

He may be a fresher face, but Sergei’s not inexperienced as a coach. On the ice, he knows how to bring out the best in each skater. But as they watch the replays, Sergei grows unsure. In the face of Alena's disappointment, it's like he’s never comforted a skater before.

“We’ll work on everything,” he finally says. “You went out there and did your job, so don’t worry about it for now.”

Alena nods, still frowning.

Sergei wishes he could do more.

Out on the ice, Trusova and the next group are skating. Sergei barely sees them. He senses motion to his right, and catches Sambo 70 in his peripheral vision. They walk past, gazes aloof, heads held high. Neither he or Alena are spared a single glance. To Eteri, it's clear who won. Alena doesn’t have her triple axel. She hardly has her triple triples.

But later, Sergei sees Alena with an interviewer in the hall.

He overhears her say, “If a person has something to express, they can tell me with their eyes.”

And it may not be a triple axel, or a perfect lutz, but something in Sergei swells. As important as test skates are, this is just the beginning.

They have plenty of time left to see who will wear the crown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REFERENCES:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7glB4-dAhk  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTG8mZdhVlQ&t=10344s  
> https://www.goldenskate.com/forum/threads/alena-kostornaia.65303/page-247


End file.
